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It was that time of year again. When cheer, love, and happiness were seemingly omnipotent and the decorations that adorned every possible surface sought to remind everyone of it. Unfortunately, it had the rather nasty side effect of reminding those without such things of what they did not have. Such was the case this year. And the year before. I didn’t make it a habit to linger on such feelings, but now and then, on a night such as this, I couldn’t help but be sorely reminded of how wonderful the rest of the world viewed this time of year.
I walked down the street through the town centre. Perhaps I was more of a masochist than I thought, for there was no lack of gaiety to be found here. The town people ran about, dashing from the warmth of their homes into the welcoming air of the pub. Some held coats overhead or had their hoods snugly pulled, while others simply accepted their fate and enjoyed the rare British snowfall. It had started as a scattered shower and according to the local weather, was supposed to stay that way. It had not. It came down now in a steady fall with no signs of relenting anytime soon.
By the time I walked by the centre and left the last whispers of celebration, I had come to terms with my fate. I made a deal with myself: two hours- three maximum if company demanded- and I could leave to return to the comfort and safety of my home.
I stomped my feet on the welcome mat and questioned once again why Molly had not simply enchanted the damn thing to brush off any unwanted debris from one’s boots. Alas, there was no such enchantment, and so the muggle way would have to suffice.
A sprig of holly dislodged from the entranceway overhead, fortuitously landing in what had been a carefully styled hair-do. I sighed and reached upwards to detangle it as carefully as I could manage. A few errant strands escaped the braids that clasped my hair into a neat and orderly bun. I had just thrown out the sprig when the door opened revealing a flushed, very pregnant, Ginny Potter.
There were some whose pregnancy served them no favours, but Ginny was no such woman. Whatever deity she had prayed to had listened, for each time she had grown heavy with child, she had seemed to lighten and, for lack of a better word, glow. She never had to deal with the morning sickness and swollen feet that ailed so many others. No, Ginny was blessed with no symptoms beyond the bump itself.
Her wide grin dropped at the sight of me. I don’t know why it still hurt after all these years. I should have been used to it by now.
“Oh, it’s you, come in then.” She said in such a way that made clear that she was inviting me in solely out of obligation and nothing more.
“‘appy Christmas Ginny,” I said quietly.
“Happy Christmas an’ all that,” She replied in a clipped tone.
She turned around and disappeared. I took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm myself and my nerves. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be here at all. But it wasn’t, and here I stood in the snow: cold, damp, and miserable.
“Shut the door! You’re letting the cold in!” A voice called out from inside, Molly’s if I had to guess.
I took one last breath and stepped inside. This wasn’t my first Weasley Christmas Party and loathe as I might be to admit it, it likely would not be my last. The house was decorated almost exactly as it had the year previously, with gaudy garland pinned to the corridor walls and holly covering every ledge and overhang.
I followed the sounds of voices coming from what I knew to be the kitchen. It seemed every Weasley gathering began, and often ended, in there.
I questioned once again why I was even here. Surely these people wanted nothing to do with me, the widow of their eldest that served to do nothing but remind them of what they had lost. I was just a cheap substitute for the one they truly wanted present. But despite it, each year a handwritten invitation showed up in early December without fail, and each year I couldn’t bring myself to not go. A few years past I had tried to pen a letter of excuses to Molly, laminating in great detail why I could not attend (a great ball to organize, a family gathering of my own, Christmas shopping that had been pushed off too long), but before I could even seal it, I had thought of Bill, his eyes, and his disappointment if I did not make appearances. So, I swallowed my discomfort and dutifully arrived at 7 pm on the dot Christmas Eve. Just like I had today. Just like I will next year.
I walked through the entryway prompting eyes to snap to mine. I nearly took comfort in the familiarity of commanding a room with my presence, likely would have if it hadn’t been for the emotions behind the stares. Some, like Harry and George, looked on with a fondness that never ceased to surprise me, but most stared with the pain of reminder. I ignored those. I always did.
“Fleur! So happy you could come!” Harry had leapt from his chair to envelop me in one of his famously warm embraces.
“I’m happy to be here,” I lied. I returned his hug, selfishly enjoying it longer than I should have.
“Get the woman a drink!” George called out, breaking the awkward tension of the room.
A mug of- I sniffed the liquid, mulled wine- was thrust in my hands. I took it gratefully, happy to have something to occupy myself with even in this small way. I sat in the chair George had so considerately pulled out for me. The rest of the party seemed content to go back to their conversations and allow me to fade into the background, a spot I frequently found myself in with this crowd.
It was unlike any other company I had. Usually, I was the centre of attention. The prized jewel of a party meant to be shown around in boast by whoever was hosting. A symbol of their influence. Stares followed me. They were ubiquitous. Omnipresent. Unrelenting. And none of them was for the reasons I wished them to be. Never were they stares of respect for the work I did or the charity I provided, or even the grace I knew I possessed- no, they were leers of lust and envy and at the very worst, contempt.
So as disconcerting as it was to not have these stares on me now, I was thankful. I sank back in my chair and allowed myself to slouch in a way I never indulged in publicly. An heiress slouching in public? If Maman could see me now.
The wine was halfway gone when she walked in. Her entrance was nearly the antithesis of mine- everyone jumped up to greet her, hug her, kiss her. How could they not? The prodigal child returning at last; a Christmas miracle that deserved to be immortalized in muggle film. There were tears of relief and happiness, long embraces where wet faces were hidden, and assurances that her years-long research away had brought them nothing but sorrow. I stayed seated. I stayed composed. I watched, I waited.
She looked beautiful- she always did. Even when her hair was plastered by sweat to her forehead as night terrors wracked her body she had looked beautiful. Even when I held her after The Battle. And especially afte- no. It wouldn’t do to linger on what could have been. Should have been. It was better to forget. To pretend nothing happened and let us move on with our lives in blissful ignorance.
I fiddled with the bracelet around my wrist to distract myself. Anything to stop thinking of her. Of her attention. Of her promise. Of her lie.
When the group had settled down and fallen back to their seats, there was only one chair left. Next to me. I bit the inside of my mouth as I considered what I should do. Would it be obvious if I went to the loo? Or went outside for fresh air? Would she notice? Would she care?
I kept my eyes firmly locked on my rapidly diminishing wine. I didn’t dare look up until I heard the chair scraping against the floor as it was pulled out. Reluctantly, I turned towards her. She was staring at me as I knew she would be. Her brown eyes were freckled in honey- exactly as I remembered. I used to spend so much time staring into them. At one point I was sure I had memorized every streak of gold in them.
“Alright Fleur?” She said, her voice softer than I was expecting.
It didn’t seem fair that she should talk to me like this. As though nothing happened. It was silly, I was aware, that I was simultaneously incensed that she would speak to me this way and thankful that she had the decorum to do so. Civility, after all, was something I was familiar with.
“Never better,” I said, dripping with false honey that I knew no one else would pick up on besides her.
She coughed into her hand in response to hide her discomfort. Even now I knew her.
“Fire whiskey, ‘mione?” Ron asked.
I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from telling him that Hermione didn’t like fire whiskey. She hated the burn and the bitter aftertaste that followed.
“That would be brilliant, thanks, Ron.”
I snapped my head to her. She raised an eyebrow as if challenging me to protest. I only bit my tongue harder until the metallic taste of blood mixed with the sweetness the wine had left.
I wondered if she had agreed to taunt me, or because she had changed. Perhaps it was appropriate that after all these years even her taste buds had altered. A more poetic person than I might say it was metaphoric.
Ron slung down the drink in front of her. Three fingers. I tutted. She smirked.
The conversation continued around me, seamlessly drawing her into the fold as though she had been there since the beginning.
I was reciting the 12 steps of ward detection, a strategy of distraction I had picked up from a muggle in Canada, as the rest of the party continued talking. I was only on number 5 when she brushed against me as she reached for the small bowl of mixed nuts in front of me. It was the closest we had been since that night. I tried not to think about it. About the feeling of my hands on her bareback, and hers on mine. About wandering kisses traveling lower and lower until- no, it wouldn’t do to reminisce. It wouldn’t do at all.
I sighed a breath of relief when she sat back in her seat. I could feel her eyes on the side of my head, but I refused to look at her. I turned to George, asked about his business, and quickly became immersed in conversation.
Several hours later I had somehow found myself convinced to play along in a game of hide and seek. Little Fred and James had begged me, and as I had always had a soft spot for children, I couldn’t find it in my heart to say no, despite my reluctance. Besides, it would offer an excellent excuse to quite literally hide away from the others. Five minutes later, and I’m crouched behind some old robes in the closet of Charlie’s old room. It wasn’t a particularly good hiding spot. My competitiveness was practically screaming at me to move, to find a new spot, to do something . I cast a charm to cause whoever entered the room to forget why they came in. It would have to do.
It proved successful when James who I could see through the shuttered closet door- barged in only to walk a few feet, stop, and turn back around the way he came. I smiled. It was quickly wiped off my face by the sudden appearance of her. She made no move to stop or turn around or wander about. No, she walked straight to the closet and yanked it open. How embarrassing. Sitting on the floor of a dusty closet with my knees tucked close to my chest clutching my wand and, I’m sure, looking every bit the schoolgirl I felt like at that moment. It was almost surprising when she, the Professor , said nothing in reprimand. She just stared. I stared back. Despite the noise from downstairs, upstairs, and quite frankly, everywhere, it somehow seemed quiet, as if we were the only two in the house with nothing but each other to break the deafening silence that shrouded us. I’d heard people describe air as “charged” before, but I had always thought it a hyperbole until this moment. Her eye contact was unwavering, unrelenting, and I felt an intense desire to break it if only to give myself relief from the scrutiny. But I knew that would be admitting defeat. I never claimed to be a bigger woman, to the high road when others went low, to rise above such pettiness. No, I knew who I was. I could not- would not- break.
And then, as if Merlin himself were mocking me- or us- a robe suddenly fell on top of me. Of course it did. It smelled like mothballs and stale air. I yanked it off and threw it away in a huff. Just like that, the silence was broken by a near manic sounding laugh. Hermione clutched her stomach as fat tears fell from her eyes in unbridled amusement.
“It isn’t that funny,” I said, with as much seriousness and disapproval as I could muster, a feat which proved to be rather difficult as the corners of my mouth twitched upward in complete and utter betrayal.
“Fl- Fleur, of course it’s funny!” She was hunched over now, the… enthusiastic laughter now contained to a soft chuckle before finally extinguishing with a final laugh and a look that I thought seemed almost fond- but that couldn’t right. Shouldn’t be.
The doorknob once again twisted. Before I could think, I reached forward and yanked her by her shirt, unintentionally causing her to lose her balance and topple directly into me. In retrospect, I should have accounted for her infamous lack of coordination, but in my defence, I had been overcome with fear of losing. I did not lose. Regardless of should and could haves, Hermione was pressed into me, her arms propped against the wood floor on either side, her front just brushing mine, and her pelvis resting against my still tucked knees. It was uncomfortable and altogether too much contact, so I lowered my knees. Unfortunately, this only caused her to lean even nearer and her legs to straddle mine.
I silently cast a spell forcing the closet door to close again just as the door to the room opened, revealing a determined-looking Teddy. He fought the charm better than his godfather’s son and inched closer in.
I was almost thankful for his continued interruption, as it at least gave me an excuse to look somewhere other than her face and the accompanying stare I could feel boring into me.
Teddy took a step forward and then another. He was halfway to the closet, his hand outstretched in front of him ready to open it when he stilled. Confusion overcame his face before smoothing out into contentment and swiftly exiting the room.
Hermione sat back on her ankles, still straddling my left leg and gave me a soft, apologetic smile. My body felt almost cold without her proximity, but I was sure it was a trick of the winter’s air.
“You know, I’m not sure casting a protective wa-”
“What do you want ‘ermione.” Even I was surprised how tired I sounded as if I hadn’t gotten a good night's rest in weeks. It wasn’t strictly untrue , but Hermione didn’t need to be privy to such unimportant details.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
She sounded confident, sure of herself in a way only Gryffindors could be. Or at least, she would have if she was speaking to anyone else but me. I knew her. I could tell when confidence was just a thinly veiled bravado. It was in the corner of her mouth that pinched inward in a slight pinch, and the eyes that just barely flickered from my own, unable or unwilling to linger.
“And what could you possibly ‘ave to say?”
There was no denying it now. She looked down and started to fidget with the hem of her olive-coloured sweater.
“I- I’m sorry. I was wrong.”
Come again? Hermione Granger admitting she was wrong? I narrowed my eyes and waited for the but. It never came. I opened my mouth, only to have no words come out.
She reached a hand toward my face but halfway thought better of it and let it drop back to her side where it resumed its fidgeting.
“I shouldn’t have left you that night. It was wrong. It was selfish. I regret more than anything else, but I need yo-”
There it was.
“But nothing. You left and then you didn’t owl. Didn’t send a Patronus. Didn’t say anything. You. Left. Me.” I jammed my finger into her chest with each word. I hated the way tears fought to the surface. I hated that she could still get me like this years later while she was able to prance around as though nothing had happened. I hated it. Most of all I hated that small seed of hope that sprouted in me at her words. The seed had always been there, probably always would be, but I had done so well to starve it, to stop it from doing precisely what it was doing now. I hated that all it took was three words, “I was wrong,” to break through years of carefully constructed suppressant and leave me hoping . It was pathetic. I was pathetic.
She looked surprised, hurt in a way I hadn’t been expecting. It only served to make me angrier. What gave her the right to hurt?
“How could I not? What was I supposed to think, that you liked me? It’s ridiculous! Absurd. Completely and certifiably mad!” She sounded indignant. I ignored it.
“You never asked.”
“And you never told me. You could have said something- I, I thought- well I thought I was just there. A warm body.”
“Is that what you think of me? Eager to saddle up to any ‘warm body’?” I felt only anger now. It wasn’t an unfamiliar emotion, but here, right now, it was certainly a powerful one. All-encompassing. All-consuming.
Her eyes widened and she shook her head. “No, I would never think that. Could never.” She sighed, looking exhausted. “I was your first after Bill. I knew that you wouldn’t want someone like me. I wasn’t going to hurt myself like that.”
“And what gave you the prerogative to decide what I wanted? My entire life people have decided what’s best for me, what I should want, what I should wear, what I should say, but of them even bothered to ask what I wanted. What I needed. I thought you were different: respected my opinion, my ideas, my emotions. Were all those conversations just lies? A means to an end to wind up in my bed? To fuck and then to never talk to again?”
My chest heaved from the effort and the emotion. I truly hadn’t meant to let the words out, but once I had opened my mouth I had found I could not stop. Years of frustration had bubbled up until the pressure was so irrepressible it was all I could do to prevent myself from screaming in her face and letting spittle fly from my mouth.
She was angry now: had clearly taken umbrage from my words. Good. She should. She deserved it.
“So it’s my fault then? You, who never reached out, never owled, never Patronoused, never talked to me at any event or visited me, you had no blame? My fault!” She sounded nearly frantic now. Where I had spoken in a quiet, but biting tone, she showed minimal restraint as she argued. I was thankful I had cast a quieting charm on the closet, for surely without it the rest of the house would have been able to hear every word she spat. “I panicked, I can admit that. How could not when I finally had the attention of a woman I had crushed on for years? Only to make love to her and have her ignore me for the next three years.”
I blinked. Crushed after?
“What do you mean crushed on?”
She rolled her eyes. “Is now really the time to feed your ego, Fleur?”
“I’m not trying to feed my ego.” I wasn’t. Truly, I wasn’t.
She sighed, her anger disappearing as quickly as it came. When she spoke, she sounded defeated, resigned. “I liked you the moment I laid eyes on you. I didn’t realize it at the time, with the war ramping up I didn’t exactly have the time to question my sexuality and my feelings.”
I was… surprised. Hermione wasn’t someone to talk about her feelings. Mind, she wasn’t one to keep them off her face- a skill I had no doubt she did not possess- but at her core, she did not divulge such intimate secrets with anyone, never-mind the object of her affections. Perhaps especially the object of her affections.
“Since Year 4?” I needed clarification. One might call it selfishness, another prideful, but to me, it was nothing if not a necessity. I craved to know her answer as if it were the letter of a lover lost at sea.
“Yes.” Her voice was quieter, smaller than it had been. It reminded me not of the woman that stood before me, but of the girl who cowered at her own shadow as she relived the moments spent locked in Malfoy Manor. It was selfish of me, of this I had no doubt, to enjoy her bluntness, her directness, her bravery when all it did was remind me of undoubtedly the worst time of her life.
“Would you believe me if I said the same?”
“No.” It was succinct, it was commanding, it was true, and most importantly, it would simply not do.
“You doubt my affections?”
“I doubt you.”
“For what? Not pursuing you when you told me not to chase? Not to engage in a hunt that was never decided upon?”
“For not having the courage.” Her voice was smaller, somehow. The indignation festering in me transformed into a cool rage.
I stood up in the small space between the door and the robes. Silly as it might seem, I felt I needed the height advantage. I relaxed slightly when I drew to full height and looked slightly down to Hermione.
My eyes were drawn down to her lips as her tongue darted out to wet them.
“Why is it my fault? Always it’s my fucking fault. It was the both of us, ‘ermione. Not just me. Both.” My voice lacked the edge it had before. I felt like I was performing lines more than anything. Sentences that had swum around my head for the better part of the last several years; all the things I wanted to say to her but couldn’t. I had a play to carry out- a homage to my younger self. “Truly, you’re nothing but a coward. ”
A flash of hurt across her face and an accompanying flame of fury in her eyes were the only signs my words cut deep.
She schooled her expression before replying, “Does it matter anymore?”
Her seemingly indifferent tone changed my own. I wasn’t sure if it had been her intention or if she was just as tired, as exhausted, as I was.
“I’m not sure.” We were whispering now despite the silence around us.
She took a step forward, I took one back. Another step, another reaction. One more and my back was pressed against the wall, nowhere to go and nowhere to look but directly at her. I closed my eyes and tried to calm my beating heart. I wasn’t sure if I was successful or not, but I opened my eyes. She was right there. Close. So close that I could see her throat bob as she swallowed nervously, the inhale and exhale that was more pronounced than usual, the ever so slight flicker of her eyes as she searched in my own for a sign- whether it was to continue or back away or both I wasn’t sure. I knew at that moment what I hoped for her to do. What I wanted. I wasn’t someone who normally waited for something I wanted; my mother had always told me I was impatient in both youth and adulthood, and I never could find a case with which to disprove her declaration. Perhaps the only thing I had been patient within my life was with Hermione. Years spent not pushing, not pulling, surviving in a stasis that prevented my growth as much as it protected my fall. I didn’t want to be patient in this any longer. It wasn’t me.
I leaned my head forward, tilting it slightly until only a breath existed between us as I raised my right hand to cup her face and my left to rest on her waist. I gave her an opportunity to draw back if she wished. She didn’t. I pressed our lips together. It wasn’t gentle or sensual or even loving. It was angry and vengeful and spiteful. And it was desperate. I was desperate. Maybe she was too.
I turned us around until she was pinned to the wall and me against her. I slotted my leg between her own and pressed forward until our chests touched. Her hands looped around my neck, drawing me nearer, forcing my leg to press against her and causing her to fidget ever so slightly as if she were trying to mask the movement. But I noticed. How could I not? I let my hand still resting on her hip lower and slip beneath her sweater. I drew harsh circles with my thumb on her warm skin. She answered with smaller, gentler circles of her own on the nape of my neck. My hand wandered upward until I reached the laced bralette she wore. I smiled through the kiss. I wondered if she had planned this all out as she had gotten dressed. If this is how she imagined it would go. If she thought about herself pinned underneath me writhing and begging for release as I painstakingly teased her to the edge again before I finally fucked her to her climax and she came crashing down with my name on her lips and her cum on my fingers. Or maybe she had imagined herself pinning me down, forcing me t- and then I realized. I didn’t need to imagine. I could take. I could give.
I swiped my thumb over a stiffened peak once, twice, before taking it away. Her back arched in an attempt to reconnect my hand. I broke our kiss to lift her shirt overhead and flung it somewhere behind me.
I glanced down and moved to unbutton her jeans but was stopped by a hand firmly grasping my wrist. When I looked at her there was a steeled glint in her eye that had not been present a minute ago. Before I could open my mouth to ask, I was spun around and pinned to the wall, my shoulder blades digging into the rough panelling behind me as she pressed her front to mine and reconnected our lips. I barely had enough time to adjust to the position before she was dragging me back into the bedroom.
“You made me wait, didn’t you? You call me a coward but you made me wait. For years I dreamt of this, remembering how right it felt to have my fingers buried in you. Do you have any idea how frustrating that was? How many times I had to fuck myself just to stave off the desire? After doing something like that, should I really reward you? Have you earned it?”
I swallowed, suddenly finding my mouth watering in anticipation. I hadn’t remembered a mouth on her last time. We were drunk the first time, but I was certain the memory of her words would have been seared into my memory as if my skin were branded had she spoken in the same way. I wondered if she had picked it up somewhere from one of her other lovers, the thought made my stomach twist in a fit of unpleasant jealousy I had no business indulging in.
I wanted to correct her, to insist that it wasn’t solely my fault, that she had at least an equal part in the blame for our quarrel, but my desire outweighed my pride and I kept my mouth firmly shut.
“Nothing to say? You agree then?”
I stayed silent. I didn’t trust myself to speak.
She looked in my eyes for a beat, then two, then three. And then, finally, when I was convinced I had made an err in judgement to be reticent, she wrapped her arm around my waist and twisted around to face the window. It was dark outside, for this I was thankful. It was cold too, I could feel the cool air emanating from the pane and causing the glass to fog from my breath that puffed against it.
“You like desks, don’t you Fleur?” Her words were spoken quietly, all honey and pressed directly into the shell of my ear, causing an involuntary shiver to shake my body at the sensation. “All the pretty letters you could have written me but chose not to you would have penned at one just like this. I think it’s only fair for you to be re-acquainted with one, don’t you think?”
Her hand once again guided me, this time a little more forceful in her suggestion as she bent my front to rest against the bare surface of the wooden desk. She edged my legs apart more with her foot. Slowly, she traced a hand up my hamstring, barely making any contact at all, but enough to make a line of goosebumps follow. She stopped as she reached my underwear. She slid a hand underneath the band and squeezed, once, twice before releasing. Her other hand followed suit until she was gripping the lace with both hands. Without preamble, she began to pull down. I lifted my hips off the surface, eager to help and get the cloth off as quickly as possible to allow her hands to return to more… pleasurable activities. She ignored my unspoken request and pulled them down tantalizingly slow. Eventually, mercifully, they reached my ankles and I kicked them off as quickly as I could manage on my shaking legs.
She rose faster than she descended. I’d like to think it was in eagerness, but I doubt I’d ever know.
Her pointer finger traced the inside of my leg as she rose. It was teasing.
She paused for a moment, hovering over me as I desperately tried to contain any sign of my frustration. A soft moan escaped my lips as she ran a finger across the top of my folds. It wasn’t nearly enough. Not enough pressure. Not enough temp. Not enough of her. I opened my mouth subconsciously, but she wrapped her hand around my mouth before any noise could escape.
“Wouldn’t want anyone to know what we’re up to would you?” She breathed from somewhere next to my ear. I couldn’t tell how close she was, or how far, I could only register the feeling of her finger against me.
Without further prompting she entered me. I couldn’t tell how many fingers, only how full I felt and how right it was. She stroked me slowly at first as if to warm me up to the inevitable. It was a surprisingly thoughtful action that shouldn’t have given me such a warm feeling as it did. Her breasts leant against my back. She didn’t stop as she leant to whisper into my ear, “so wet for me aren’t you Fleur? Were you thinking of me earlier? When I leant against you in the kitchen did you imagine me leaning you over the table fucking you?”
I missed a breath. I had never been a passive lover. Even with Hermione, the last time we had fucked she had allowed me to take control. Something had happened between then and now, and I craved to know what it was. It wasn’t like me to give up power not earned, but with Hermione, it felt natural, it felt right. It felt-
She began to pump her fingers harder. My breaths tried to line up with her strokes, but I was quickly left breathless. I moved backwards with every stroke she had forward, a give and take whose symbolism wasn’t lost on me, even at this moment. Particularly at this moment. Her left arm wrapped around my middle and pulled me tighter against her with every thrust.
My own arms, which had been dutifully resting against the top of the desk, twitched in need to touch something, anything. I tried to slide a hand down to press against myself but she spotted the movement immediately and covered mine with her own. She pressed her back against mine as she leaned forward, pressing her lips against my ear and breathlessly whispering, “not yet.”
I obeyed. Nearly every part of me wanted to resist, to turn around and show her just how angry and upset and hurt I was with her, to make her feel the hurt I had felt the last several years, but the part of me that eagerly desired to give up control, however small it may have been, was strong enough to keep my hands firmly against the surface of the desk, grasping at handholds that didn’t exist and biting my tongue from calling out.
“Good girl,” She breathed. I wondered if she was as desperate as I was- if I would have faced any resistance had I been the one pushing into her. I doubted it.
“So eager,” she continued.
She pumped harder into me. I couldn’t remember when she added another finger, only that when she did it had felt so right, so full . Her other hand teased my folds before finally pressing against my clit, rubbing lightly at first to give me a chance to adjust to the sensation before slowly building until I was balanced on the precipice.
Once she felt me tense she relaxed her motions until they were little more than teasings.
“I’m not done with you yet,” She told me.
The pressure was at a zenith, I couldn’t think of anything but my own release. I ground against her front.
Despite her more… Gryffindor tendencies, in this, she was insufferably reserved. She chuckled, the sound only serving to warm me further.
“You’re mine aren’t you Fleur? I bet you thought of me when you were fucking others. Tell me, did they make you feel this good? Did they fuck you like this?”
It was exceedingly difficult to form a coherent thought, never-mind a sentence in response. Instead, I shook my head and hoped that was enough. It wasn’t. Her hand withdrew from my clit to pinch at my nipple painfully in clear displeasure to my lack of an answer. It shouldn’t have felt good.
I was always a good liar, especially to myself, but even I couldn't bring myself to lie when the pinch turned into gentle ministrations that left me more frustrated than when she started. My back arched forcing my front to press further into the desk. It didn’t feel good. It didn’t. It couldn’t.
When she re-gave the aggression I tried to deny my desire for, I finally stopped with the lies to myself. It felt good. Hell, it felt better than good. It felt amazing, wonderful, fant-
The sound of the door handle turning filled the air. I tensed, expecting Hermione to stop her attention and jump away from me. She didn’t. She continued to diligently press inside me. For a brief moment, I wondered if she somehow hadn’t heard at all, if she had been so caught up in whatever it was we were doing she had drowned out everything else. My… concerns were put to rest when a whisper of a spell was spoken so softly I couldn’t make out the words. Whatever it had been was sufficient in dismissing whoever lurked behind the door as I soon heard footsteps retreating.
She hadn’t lost a beat from the near interruption. Normally I might have been impressed with her ability to keep a level head but it wasn’t until much, much later that I was able to fully appreciate how unflappable she had been. Criticize me if you must, but her thrusts once again were becoming more rapid and it was all I could do to remember to breathe.
“Cum for me Fleur,” She demanded. No, it was not a request, nor a beg, but a command meant to be followed. I tried to stave off, to deny her this one pleasure after I had given everything else to her so eagerly but my body was not of my own volition and I soon felt the release shutter throughout my body. My eyes, already closed, saw white instead of black, my body slumped against the top of the table and my arms, up until now clenching the back of the table, gave up and laid languid.
She stroked me a few more times letting me ride out the orgasm, until finally removing her hand. Her other arm twisted me around to face her. Her eyes were blown wide, the brown nearly swallowed by her pupils as they looked into me hungrily.
Hermione reached up to cup my face. She pressed her lips against mine, far more gently than I had been expecting- or craving- but in my daze I was grateful. She leant her forehead against mine for a moment. Her thumb brushed softly against my lips. I opened my mouth slightly without thinking. She brought her hand, still slick with my pleasure, upward and pushed her fingers into my mouth as I stared at her through hooded lids. Slowly, she withdrew and brought them into her own.
I closed my eyes and tried to collect myself. We stood in silence for a few minutes until finally, I managed the composure to say, “Let’s go back down, I’m sure they’re wondering where we got to.”
“You can’t be quiet again?” She smirked.
I raised an eyebrow. “Do you really want me to be quiet?”
“I cast exceptional silencing charms.”
I kissed away her smirk and strode away before she could pull back in. I watched her stare at me as I stepped into my discarded underwear. When I turned around away from her to move towards the door, she wasted no time walking forward to hold me from behind.
She nipped at the hollow of my neck while she wrapped a strong arm around my waist and pulled me flush against her. She squeezed her hand at my hip in a possessive manner.
I could already feel the evidence of my arousal. I bit down on my lip.
“Are you sure you want to go back? Not wait five more minutes? Would it make a difference?”
“A literal devil on my shoulder whispering sins in my ear, oh how far I’ve fallen.”
She pulled the neckline of my dress down to bite my shoulder in retaliation.
“Is it a bad thing if it feels that good?”
“It tends to be particularly bad.”
I turned out of her embrace to face her. She sighed in disappointment.
“Oh, you’ll be fine. One more hour and we’ll make our excuses, ok?” I said as I tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. My hand lingered, cupping her jaw and gently stroking her cheek with my thumb. I was still in disbelief that I was allowed to touch her like this when no one else was. She raised her hand to grip my wrist, forcing me to continue holding her face.
“What are you smiling about?”
I hadn’t realized I was smiling. Her pointing it out only widened it.
“I’m just happy.”
I lowered my forehead down to meet hers. We existed together for a few breaths, standing in silence as we shared the same air. It felt just as charged as did before we made up, maybe even more so.
We leaned forward at the same time. This kiss was softer than ones before. It meant more. It was full of promises, of assurances, of emotions yet to be acknowledged and feelings yet to be confessed. There were things we still needed to work through, a great number of them if truth be told, a passionate hook up was not going to solve our problems. They would be though- eventually, of that I was sure.
We pulled away at the same time. She was smiling now.
“What are you smiling about?” I echoed her earlier words.
“I’m just happy,” She parroted.
I felt a curious sensation across my forehead- a prickling of sorts as if something was straining against my skin. I dropped my hand from her cheek to tentatively reach to my face. Something had sprouted. It felt soft, almost like-
“Hermione Granger! What did you do?” I slapped her shoulder and finally noticed the wand she held clutched in her other hand.
“Well since you’re obviously too chicken to stay here, I thought you should look the part.” She was hunched over now, in much the same way she had been when the robe had fallen on me. Her shoulders shook in laughter as tears started to prickle to her eyes. Despite the situation, I couldn’t help the amusement I felt. Truly, I don’t think there was much that could have brought me down from the high I was on. A few feathers were nothing.
“And you thought feathers would do that?”
She composed herself enough to look at me seriously and with concern, although she was fighting a losing battle to keep the corners of her mouth down in a stern line.
A snort escaped her control as she said, “You do look a bit a peckish- maybe we should go back down.”
She slapped her hands to her mouth. I raised my eyebrow in response.
“I do love dessert, it’d be a pity to miss it,” I winked. I turned around and left the room, dispelling the feathers from my face as I did and not bothering to check if she would follow. I already knew she would.